There Is A Number of Small Things
by abstraction
Summary: The greasy feel of thunder tangles in her hair, and the chill silently shocks her cheeks, but she doesn’t shy away from it. Not anymore. Five snapshots of Edward and Bella.


**There Is A Number of Small Things  
**abstraction

(I don't own anything but the words.)

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Seattle today. The sky hangs low and dark, broiling clouds brushing the horizon, and she can feel the tingle of a storm on its way, a subtle electric current streaming down her skin. The greasy feel of thunder tangles in her hair, and the chill silently shocks her cheeks, but she doesn't shy away from it. Not anymore.

Her hand is fused to Edward's and she feels – complete. It has always been this way for her, for them, and she glances at him through a shield of wet lashes. All around there's the hurried steps of people, babbling about nothing to each other, hoping to avoid the rain; but the sounds all blur into indistinct echoes, humming against and in between the slow teardrops of rain. His lips thin and the corner jerks up, and she can feel the movement, feel him, all the way through her body. Blood seeps to her cheeks and he only grips her tighter, pulls her closer.

When they slide into the Volvo, both of them are soaked through. Neither of them mind.

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_You're quite troublesome for someone so small_, he says, and it's not without a smirk. She tries to glare, can feel her brow beginning to crinkle; but she laughs suddenly and loudly instead, and it reminds him of bells chiming.

Once upon a time, he was nearly one chime too late. He doesn't like to remember.

She tries to help him forget.

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It would have been a nearly inaudible sigh, had he been wholly human, but that's not a point he challenges her with anymore. She wonders when he began – the acceptance. Her eyes wander the horizon, fading fast into darker and darker hues, and she knows he's watching her think, wants to know how she works inside.

He grabs her, abruptly, and spins her around with a glee normally reserved for five-year-olds, and her bones and muscles relax until she can only feel him, her insides bubbling with an exhilaration from the icy chill of the air, the vampire-made wind sweeping her hair up and around like a ribbon. The excitement in his eyes when he places her gently upon the ground glows dimly in the vanishing twilight.

His grin is inescapable, contagious, overwhelming, and for a long time she can't breathe.

Until he reminds her.

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_Edward_, she says, and he inwardly thrills. Her eyebrows scrunch together, upset, and her eyes are moving rapidly behind her lovely human eyelids. She breathes, the sigh somehow tinted with an irritated exasperation, and a chuckle rumbles quietly in the back of his throat. He tilts his head upwards, pressing his lips against her creased brow and watches as she immediately calms, her forehead smooth, face serene.

Before this, before _her_, he was restless during the night, idling away the dark hours while the rest of the world was sleeping, quiet as the grave. He pulls her closer at the thought, and she nuzzles against his chest, freely giving away her warmth to him, unsuspecting of how heavy the gift is. Generally, this train of thought only led to fresh internal arguments of how selfish he was, how generous she was with her soul, but not this time, because the girl in question suddenly gasps, laughs, and scrunches her fingers up in his shirt.

His heart is light as he strokes her hair.

He loves the night these days.

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Sometimes they don't need to say it.

She can see it in his eyes, in his ever-careful hands, in his manner and intonation. He can feel it in her pulse, the rush of her blood, the tremble of her hands, the awkward stuttering beats of her heart.

They try not to part, and they don't, if they can help it, but sometimes she doesn't need him while brushing her hair or rinsing her mouth. She usually does though, and he will lounge against the shower, the bathroom light reflecting in the mirrors and the glass and the surface of his skin, and it is always easy, comfortable.

He sometimes doesn't need her while --- he can't finish the thought. He will always need her.

"I love you," he says, often enough, glad to have it rolling off his tongue as a truth and not a wish.

"I love you," she replies, and it is always happy, always a perfect melody for his ears.

Sometimes they don't need to say it. But more often than not, they do.


End file.
